Disclaimer: I own nothing. All things recognizable are property of G.R.R. Martin, David Benioff, D.B. Weiss, & company, & the asoiaf wiki.

Thank you everyone who took the time to read, follow, and left reviews. I hope everyone enjoys the conclusion of my first major multi-chapter work.


Chapter 26

Elia shifts forward. Ordinarily, he would be thrilled at how she wraps herself around him. Except, now she is trying to see around him. "Viserys should be here by now."

It was not the first time she makes this observation. To hold Elia still, he grasps at her waist. He decides to focus on the warmth of his wife's body than make the retort he wants to. "He will be here soon."

He hopes he is not lying. For his trouble he receives an expected reply.

"They are late."

He does not look back to his children. Grown as they are, they will take too much humor in this. While they are freer with laughter than he is, he would join in.

Still, he refrains; he'd rather not be barred from his wife's rooms. That is no experience he cares to repeat. Not for Viserys' sake, at least; or Arriane Martell's, for that matter.

Feeling her shift, he tightens his grip on her. "You worry too much."

She gives him a look. "You do not worry at all."

Worry? Why would he? Viserys is a man grown. He has a wife who can worry about him! He drops his voice low. "You are never so anxious to see me."

Without turning back, he thinks the long-suffering sigh came from Aegon. Rhaenys' laughter would have carried; Jon would be kind enough to turn his scoff into a cough.

He deftly he inches his feet away from Elia's. Even with the gray creeping into the silver of his hair and the louder creaks of his bones have become, he is not without his wits.

Elia retort, "I have not seen Viserys for a year. You, I see every day." He almost smiles.

"Should I be insulted?"

Elia laughs. "Are you?"

He snorts. "Viserys has your niece to do his worrying for him. If you do it, all you would prove is that you love him more than me."

"Caught on, Father, have you?"

Quick as a viper Elia's glares at their eldest son. "I'll have no lip from you, Aegon."

Margaery piped up from beside Aegon, "I am afraid it's much too late for correcting that, Mother."

Aegon's look of outrage at his wife causes Minisa Arryn, Jon's wife to giggle behind her hand.

Grinning, Jon steps away from his place beside his wife and puts his arms around Elia's shoulders. "Now, now, Mother, my dear brother cannot help it feeling a bit jealous now that your little prince is returning."

The laughter around them does not need to be pulled out, it gushes. Aegon, mollified by the kiss Margaery gave him barely holds his false glare.

Flushing slightly, Elia runs a hand through Jon's hair, pouting. "Have I been lacking as a mother that my sons would think I play favorites?"

Aegon, who towers over his mother, pulls himself away from his wife to press kiss to Elia's cheek. "Insult you? Never, we only jest." Even at their ages, his children gleefully poke fun at Elia's 'mothering' of Viserys who grumbles unconvincingly. He doubts that would ever change. The teasing might only increase since Viserys is only going to be here for a short time until he and Arianne go to Casterly Rock now that Daenerys is with child.

Rhaenys smirks. "If that's your best work at jesting, you'd starve, Aeg."

Sure enough, Aegon gives Rhaenys a mulish look. Jon doesn't bother hiding his snort this time.

This is his family, he thinks. Or at least, without Daenerys, most of it.

He shares a commiserating look with Elia. Full grown, and still, very much children. He doubts that would change even when they, too, were grey of hair.

Whatever Aegon was preparing to stay is drowned out by: "Rhae, let your brother alone."

Despite the words, the rebuke from Edmure Tully held little heat. Not that he would expect it to. Of the pair, his daughter was the more outspoken one.

Rhaenys snickers. "Why should I, husband? Is it not the prerogative of an older sister to mock her younger brothers?"

Edmure returns Rhaenys's gaze evenly. "It is the prerogative of a younger brother to tell you such a pastime is a waste of your energies best suited directed elsewhere."

At least, this Fish has sharp enough bones for his daughter. He does not know if he should be glad of that. Rhaenys looks pleased. Too pleased, he thinks with something approaching dread.

The pair are pressed together. Too close, he thinks, when Rhaenys drawls, "It is just as well you are not my younger brother, Husband. I might able to direct my energies as you require them."

He gamely tries to ignore the leer Tully gives his daughter. His sons are no better, they're grinning like they won something and his goddaughters are flushing. Anyone else might be fooled by that. His goddaughters might play at ladies, but, both are giving their respective sons glances are just as speculative as the ones they get in return.

Elia, of course, damned woman, finally distracted, is looking at them all fondly. He just feels his age.

Oswell mutters, "There they are, thank the Gods!"

Thank the Gods, indeed!


"Oof."

Startled by the weight on top of him, Rhaegar's eyes fly open.

Instead the cool touch of a blade, impossibly small hands poked at his face. Rather than angry blue eyes of Robert that still meets him in dreams, his current assailant has eyes just like his. Instead of the haggard, grey face and smell of salt and sea he remembers of Greyjoy, this face is pale and youthful, the clean skin gives off a faint hint of powder.

"Up?", questioned the piping voice.

"Jump a few more times to be sure, Aemon." The voice is regrettably familiar.

Grabbing his giggling grandson by the waist while pushing himself up, he glares at his unwelcome brother. "Who let you in to my rooms?"

He grimaces. He should sound more authoritative than that! But, of course, Viserys decided to catch him in the morning, unaware.

Viserys smirked. "No one lets the brother of the King anywhere."

He holds in a sigh. Viserys is no more mature now than he had been when that pointed head used to be level with his waist. Praying for patience he knows is fleeting when dealing with Viserys, he turns to his grandson. "Who let you in, Aemon?" Which traitorous soul must he punish?

"Ser Lucas."

Naturally. A fine knight the Kingsguard might be, but, Ser Lucas had been a mix of a guard and an older playmate for Viserys. Viserys took this opportunity as a gift.

"Is he still outside?"

At the enthusiastic nod, he settles Aemon beside him and barks for the knight.

Quick to obey, the man rushes in. Guilty conscience? Pah! Likely not. "Take my brother the gaol and have him whipped."

Not concerned in the least, Viserys rolls his lilac eyes. "Take one step towards me and I'll ensure I will have your company in the next cell, Lucas."

True enough, the knight, not moving, looks between them, clearly torn, only an expression of mild exasperation betraying him.

After a quick internal debate on the merits and pitfalls of truly imprisoning his brother, he settles for reminding Viserys: "You have no authority here unless I allow it."

Viserys scoffs. "Elia does."

Annoyed, he snaps, "The queen's authority is what the king deems it to be."

Viserys' bored look is almost insulting. "Keep practicing. One day I might believe you."

From his side, Aemon gasps. He imagines how wide Aemon's eyes must be now. Alas, Aemon is a stranger to the be dynamic he and Viserys share, Ser Lucas is not. The Kingsguard's gaze is fixed at a wall, a faint smile is on his face.

"Go away, Viserys!" And to think, he missed the godsforsaken urchin.

"Come on, Aemon!"

He puts a hand on his grandson's shoulder. "Aemon can stay. You, out now!"

Viserys smirks. "You would not have me betray my promise to your son, would you?"

He shifts upwards. "My son is too intelligent to believe in your promises."

Viserys shoots back, "If that were true, he would have never given me his son."

"What happened to no one lets the brother of the king do anything," he replies, drily. "Besides, I know Aegon is too busy to have met with you this morning."

Viserys snorts. "Margaery, then."

He rolls his eyes. "You and I both know that Margaery is at is at the alms house she started sponsoring. Come now, Brother, just say you snuck him out of his nurses' custody to cause trouble."

Viserys draws himself up, nose in the air, causing Aemon to giggle. "I would never stoop so low as to lie to you."

This time, he sneers. "Keep practicing. One day I might believe you."

"Shut it!"

He smothers a smile. A memory of a much younger Viserys stomping his foot flits through his mind. Even the whine is the same. One would think being the consort to the Ruling Princess of Dorne would make a man mature. Apparently, his brother is an exception to the rule. "Out now, Viserys."

Viserys extends his hand. "The boy."

"No." Aemon is gaping, open mouthed.

His brother frowns. "What do you mean by 'no'?"

"It is a simple enough word, Viserys. You may go now."

Viserys leans against the bannister. "Why should I leave the boy with you?"

"I am his grandfather."

Viserys scoffs. "That is supposed to hold weight with me?"

He gets up. "You are not so grown that I will not take you over my knee."

Viserys' eyes go wide; to his credit, Viserys remains standing where he was. "I would like to see you try."

He moves around the bed. Ser Lucas looks like he is muttering a prayer. "Are you going to leave or am I going to make you?"

Viserys brays, "Do you think your brittle knees can manage it?" Proud words for someone backing away with him now.

"Keep squawking and you will find out!" He advances upon his brother.

Viserys' laughter carries even after he flounces out of the room.

He sighs heavily as he settles on his bed again. 'Your younger brother will look up to you. He will love you. He will listen to you. You will love him.' He never pegged his mother for a liar.

Turning to the still silent Ser Lucas, he pointedly remarks, "You are supposed to obey me."

The knight's gaze is firm, but, the tips of his ears are red. There is that, at least. "Yes, Your Grace."

"And yet, despite my order, my brother strolled past you."

"Yes, Your Grace."

At least the red spreading from the man's ears down his ears reassure him that he is not being mocked by his own staff! Still, there are principles.

"Why is that?"

The knight shrugs, but, the nervousness in the action is reassuring. "It is the mandate of the Kingsguard to obey the king and his family."

He sighs. "Then, Ser Lucas, I order you to remember my lack of prohibition is not to be taken as permission."

The knight gives him a considering look. "Prince Aemon wished to see you. I did not have the heart to refuse." Then, the knight mock glares at the boy.

He, too, turns to frown at his giggling grandson. Giving into impulse, he pokes Aemon in the side, sending the boy into gales of laughter.

Without turning back to the knight, he pronounces, "In the future, you may let Aemon in. Keep Viserys out."

He barely hears Ser Lucas' advice of, "You can always tell the Princess" over Aemon's delighted squeal.

He rolls his eyes. "You mean tattle."

Lucas snickers. "I mean, it would be beneficial to use whatever avenue is at your disposal."

Arianne Martell would probably encourage Viserys. She is equally incorrigible, to the delight of both his wife and his brother. He sighs. "Leave us."

The knight does that, but, not before pausing to make a funny face at Aemon who laughs delightedly. Well, at least his knights still obey him.

Truthfully, he is not angry. He cannot be, he does not get to see his grandchildren or his siblings as much as he likes. Well, at least that will change now.

He considers Aemon. The boy looks so much like his Aegon, but, where Aegon keeps his hair short, the tips of Aemon's locks brush his shoulders. "Aemon, never listen to anyone who tells you that being an older brother is a joy. The one who does is a liar and is not to be trusted."

He is met with a confused look. He barely restrains a laugh. Olenna, for all her six name days to Aemon's four, is a doting older sister. Still, Aemon answers dutifully, "Yes, Grandfather."

A smile tugs at his lips. "That's my boy."

Aemon laughs delightedly. After a moment, he speaks again. "Grandfather?"

"Hmm?"

"Can we-" The boy cuts himself off.

He frowns, concerned. Lifting the boy's head slightly, he presses, "What is it, Aemon? You will never get what you want if you do not speak up."

Aemon hesitates. He understands why. Upon their marriage Aegon and Margaery made their home on Dragonstone and wisely, in his opinion, rarely brought the children to court before now. But, Aegon was old enough to take over more and more of his duties. It only made sense to have his family settle in King's Landing.

It is too soon for him to be any sort of consistent presence in Aemon's life. Besides, where aunts, uncles, and grandmothers were indulgent, grandfathers were rarely said to be.

He considers the thought for a moment. Was that always true or was it only been true for him?

Jaeherys, the Second of his Name, his grandsire twice over, died before the notion of what a grandfather ought to be like should have mattered. And in truth, it had not. Besides, no person or tome he came across ever described Jaeherys as indulgent. Any mention of Jaeherys by his parents had been halting and the mood had been equally tense. Maester Aemon, too, never one to mince words with him even through the page, failed to broach the subject.

With his children's grandfathers…Ryon, Elia's father, died mere months after they married, and Rickard Stark died at the hand of his father before Jon had been born. He can hardly use either example to model himself.

"Papa says you play the harp well."

He eyes the boy. What was Aemon after? Curious, he replies, "So I am told."

What else does Aegon say of him? Does Aegon say anything else? Was this the only complementary thing Aegon says of him? Was this the best thing any of his children could say? Gods, what a distressing thought!

He offers, "Would you like me to teach you?"

Aemon gazes at him earnestly. "Will you?"

Something catches in his throat. "Of course, I will."

He winces at the ear shattering squeal. Did all children do that? And, so loudly? He does not remember if his children did. Of his grandchildren…Olenna never had in front of him. Was that something only grandsons did? No…Brynden, Rhaenys' eldest, never had. Meria, Rhaenys' second born, was a babe barely of ten months.

He shakes himself of the thought when Aemon prompts him. "Grandfather?"

What else is Aemon going to ask him. "Yes?"

"Are you going to court today?"

What was the boy after? He shakes his head. "No."

That must have been the correct answer. He got a smile in response.

"Grandfather, can we go to the kitchens?"

He repeats, "The kitchens?"

Was that it? Thank the gods. He had begun imagining all sorts of things. He would not know what to say if Aemon asked him about a getting a pony.

An enthusiastic series of quick nods follows the question.

He smirks at his grandson. "I take it that is a 'yes'."

The boy flushes a bit. The boy replies, "Yes, Grandfather."

The question still stands: "Why?"

"The cook is making peach pies." Then, Aemon grows suspiciously quiet.

"Is there anything else?"

Flush deepening, Aemon looks away. "What if-" The now subdued voice trails off.

He snorts. The sudden dip in glee he is familiar with. "Your lady mother tells you to wait, does she?"

Aemon looks back at him, pouting. "Yes."

He smiles. "Ah, well. It is a good thing a king's edict trumps that of the Crown Princess."

The boy gapes. Perhaps he never heard such a thing. Margaery Tyrell is clever enough not to ask for things or Aegon or he might refuse.

"Truly, Grandfather?"

He mutters, "There has to be some benefit to being king." Still, he finds himself adding, "Please do not tell anyone I said so." There is no point in tempting fate. He hopes his grandson never has to learn that lesson.

The boy shuffles closer, face scrunching. "Like who?"

He smiles a bit. "Your mother. Your father. Your lady grandmother, the Queen. Especially her." He will never live it down. Then again, who better knew him?

Aemon gives him a curious look. "Uncle Viserys is right?"

He blinks, not comprehending the change in subject. "Your Uncle Viserys is wrong on most accounts."

Aemon gawks. Clearly that was the wrong thing to say. Bemused, he presses, "What do you believe him to be right about?"

"That Grandmother scares you."

Aemon sounds incredulous. Of course, he would be. Elia had been permissive with his brother and sister. She'd been generous with their children. Leniency with their grandchildren? That battle had been lost from the moment their first one was born. "Your Grandmother does not scare me."

Aemon looks at him doubtfully. "Father says princes should be honest."

Does Aemon mean to say that he wasn't?

Even if Elia could try her very best at doing her worst, she never could frighten him. Instead, he was the one with the ability and, once, the readiness to frighten her. After all, though she was a princess when they wed, he was her husband, the father of her children, and later he became her king. She could have and had feared the man he could have become and almost did become.

It is a good thing, then, that he had not and even better that he worked to dispel that fear. Thinking of all that passed and the possible outcomes, he knows that his life is better for it.

"Your father is wise", he starts, as though he was not lauding his own son, before finishing, "But, this is a different matter."

"How?"

He frowns. Neither Aegon or Jon asked so many questions of him. Rhaenys had fewer. And there were some things they just did not ask. Even regarding the most questionable of the decisions of his youth…

With the earnest face looking up at him, he knows he has gone soft in his dotage. "She'd be upset with me, yes, but only because she did not get to do the same thing with you first."

Aemon's face scrunches adorably. "If she will be mad, why do it?"

A smile tugs at his lips.

That he was glad Elia had less of that famed Dornish temper characteristic of others it would be unbecoming to name is nothing he can say to his young grandson. This would be very inappropriate to say to anyone. Amiable personality aside, Aegon would kill him, he thinks, if Elia and Margaery do not. "You will know exactly I mean when you are older."

At the dubious look Aemon gives him, he merely pats the boy's shoulder, instructing him to wait until he finishes his ablutions before rejoining him in a quest for illicit sweets.

It was not as though he saw the boy much before this; and surely, he should be better at this business of being a grandfather than the Fat Flower. Besides, the boy seems happy. Then again, he is both king and grandfather. To ensure his grandson's happiness is his prerogative.


He cannot fathom why Brynden and Olenna were pouting at him from their end of the table.

"You upset them."

"I beg your pardon." He stares blankly at Rhaenys who repeats the statement.

"What do you mean, 'I upset them'?"

The glower Rhaenys sends him is all Oberyn. "They think you prefer Aemon to them."

He winces. "What have you been telling them that they would think this?" The prospect of his princess badmouthing him to his grandchildren rankles.

Rhaenys tuts at him, another reminder of her favorite uncle. Almost expecting to see that menace, he shudders.

"I do not have to tell him anything, Father. Your actions themselves tell them so."

What in the name of the Gods has he done?

"It is what you did not do." She looks and sounds so much like Elia in that moment, he's both proud and horrified.

He takes a breath. "My dear daughter, that is incredibly unhelpful."

"Rhae, leave your poor father alone." The cheerful voice of Edmure Tully cuts through the air.

"Poor Father?", he repeats. Such an unseemly phrase. He is no damsel in need of rescue…and from his own daughter, no less. He certainly does not need rescuing by his good-son.

Tully takes time to shoo away his son and niece with pats on the shoulder for both before he settles next to Rhaenys with a kiss to the lips. When they pull apart Tully smiles ruefully. "Your Grace, you have my deepest apologies. I did not mean to offend."

He snorts, "Save apologies for when you mean it, Tully."

True to form, his good-son smile only grows. "As you will it, Father."

His will? Hah! "Well, Daughter, would you care to explain why two of my grandchildren are wroth with me?"

Taking a sip of wine, a Dornish variety, unsurprisingly, Rhaenys rolls her eyes. "I believe it had something to do with an 'adventure with Grandfather' Aemon had been crowing about."

He stares blankly. "I took him to the kitchens. Once." That's what all this was about? Should he have taken them too? Should he have asked? "Did they want to go?"

Picking up his thread, Tully warns, "I would not try that now."

"Why not?"

"It would not appear sincere."

Did they think he liked Aemon better? Had his grandchildren truly thought it a gesture of preference? It hadn't been. How could he fix it if they did think this? "Well, what would you have me do?"

"I'm sure you'll figure it out, Papa. You always do."

That's not helpful at all. Grinning at him like she is, Rhaenys knows it, too. She's too much like Oberyn. He turns to Tully. "Tully, what would you recommend?"

"For now, do nothing."

"Not you as well!"

Tully makes a show of considering. "Well, you could always settle the dispute between Lord Goodbrook and Lord Smallwood."

Is everyone he knows incorrigible or has he been too lenient with those bound to him by blood and custom?

Then again, he cannot claim to be caught unawares. He knew both Hoster and Brynden Tully. Edmure came by gall honestly. "I meant what would you have me do for your son and niece, not you."

Unrepentant, Tully says, "A distraction might help you clarify the matter."

He gives Tully a flat look. "It wouldn't."

Edmure grins cheerfully, Rhaenys laughs. "It was worth a try."

He frowns. The phrasing stinks of Viserys. "Edmure, you have been keeping company with my brother too much."

Grinning, Edmure holds his hands up in supplication. "Was it not you, my king, who said, that it was better to have his way if only to save your own sanity?"

Rhaenys buries her head into her husband's neck, snickering.

He glares harder. "If I knew you would be this bad of an influence on my daughter, I would have never married her to you."

Tully gives Rhaenys, with her face still planted in her husband's neck, a pleased look. "Your Grace, I just married your daughter. I can hardly be responsible for her eccentricities."

He warns, "I hope you do not mean to blame me for them." If not Tully's fault, this type of boldness was all Elia's side of the family. He is sure of it.

Tully smirks. "I would never credit blame to you, my liege. Such thoughts would be treasonous."

Rhaenys pulls her head up long enough to elbow her husband in the side. "I am right here, I will have you know."

He sighs. "You do not see yourself capable of treason, Tully?"

Tully laughs. "Treason would be difficult for me to contemplate. After all, my wife is your daughter."

Rhaenys leans into her husband, looking at Tully with dark eyes and a flushed face. "Is this where you quote your house words at me?"

Tully smiles, "Wife, they're your house words, too." He takes her hand and gives it a kiss.

Oh, hells. Must they do that in front of him? "If you are going to do that, do so elsewhere."

"Do what?"

Rhaenys is blinking at him as though she forgot he was here. Tully, still grinning like a fiend, does not bother to pretend. "My king, it is my good fortune you gave me your only daughter to wed."

"Hush now, you." Despite the words, his daughter is blushing like a besotted girl. By the gods…Both of them are too old for displays like this. He is too old to see displays like this.

"I am merely stating facts, wife." Rhaenys is beaming at Tully. Tully is gazing dreamily back.

"Husband, do you fancy yourself a scholar?" They are too close.

The blue of his good-son's eyes is barely visible, his smile is so wide. "You doubt my ability to be one, wife?"

Rhaenys shrugs, feigning disinterest he doesn't believe in either. "I am certain you have quite a few virtues." She had a hand in Tully's red hair, brushing it back. A stray thought about Rhaenys once liking red hair flits in his mind.

He flees the table.

Tully had not been his first choice for his daughter's husband. The Fat Flower had been angling for a match between his daughter and Aegon and he saw no need to look there. Even now, Stannis Baratheon would not have agreed to marry his son to Rhaenys without his hand being forced. Instead Baratheon wed his Steffon to the elder Arryn girl. Renly, for all his charm, had been ill suited for Rhaenys. Jasper Arryn had been too young to consider. Daenerys' temperament suited Tyrion and Tywin Lannister better than Rhaenys' would have. Outside Tully, there was only Robb Stark to consider if he wanted a Great House for his daughter and she made her choice quite clear.

"Father, absolutely not."

Sitting across from her in his Solar, he is met with a firm look, he has never from his daughter. He turns to Elia. She has only eyes for Rhaenys, her lips turned down slightly. He will get no counsel there.

His daughter never gainsaid him. And here she was, giving him a look reminiscent of Viserys at his most mulish. "Why not?"

"I do not wish to," she says, simply.

"Do you not wish to marry?" In truth, he never thought of that possibility. Rhaenys showed no desire to join a Septry.

Rhaenys amends, "I do not wish to marry him."

At court, Rhaenys is mindful in how bold she can be. In private, though, she is rarely so restrained. Usually, he finds it charming in his princess; today, it confounds him. "Has he offended you in some way? Is there some fault in character you discovered?"

What could he do if that was the case? While he posed the question, he has doubts. Of the few times the Stark heir came to King's Landing, he had been pleasant.

"No."

"If you would marry into a Great House then there are only two possibilities and one is Robb Stark."

Rhaenys breathes deeply. "Then, because I know you would see me wed, make an offer to Lord Tully."

He cannot quite understand the vehemence. "You would prefer Edmure Tully to Robb Stark?"

With a glance quick glance at Elia, Rhaenys, back straight, turns back to him. "Yes."

"Is he not comely enough?" As far as he can tell, Robb Stark's visage were as pleasant as his manners.

"Is it no so that he takes after the distaff side?"

He wonders what Rhaenys is getting at. Then again, in looks, Robb Stark did favor his mother's people. "That is so", he admits.

"Then, Edmure Tully, Lady Stark's brother, is just as comely." Rhaenys looks as though she won a tilt. Perhaps she had; he had not known he is participating in one.

"The difference in age between yourself and Tully is greater than the one between yourself and Stark. Two years." He adds, "Your mother and I have the same difference."

Rhaenys purses her lips. "The age is of no consequence."

"No?" He asks, incredulously. He doubts his daughter agree to a match if the groom he put forward was a man as old as himself or older. He continues, "It the difference in faith? If so , you know Lady Stark follows the Seven. There is a Sept at Winterfell."

"No."

"Is it the distance?" He would understand that, to a point. After all, it was understood that women did leave their childhood homes. Elia had done no differently.

Rhaenys takes a sharp breath. "Mother?"

He glances at his wife at Rhaenys' entreaty, hoping for some insight. Instead, Elia's eyes trained on Rhaenys. For the first time since they sat down, Elia speaks. "Dear gjrl, there is no reason to set a spear through your own foot because someone else's was glanced with a knife."

Rhaenys grimaces at the rare rebuke. He is too nonplussed to comfort her about it. Rhaenys tilts her head up. "As you asked which match I prefer if either should have me, I have determined which one suits me best."

Then, Elia's face softens. "Are you certain?"

Rhaenys nods. "Quite so."

Elia continues. Her usually warm eyes are hard. "I expect your choice is made for no reason than it is yours."

Not understanding, he frowns. But, Rhaenys clearly knows what Elia meant. "It is." Mother and daughter stare at one another for what seems like hours.

Eventually, Elia turns to him. "Rhaenys is the one who must marry. She has told you her choice. If Hoster Tully agrees, that's it."

What did they think? That he was going to force her? Drag his princess towards the Sept or a Weirwood? "I simply wish to know why between the uncle and the nephew you would choose the uncle."

For a moment, she looks frustrated, but only briefly. It's the guilty look on her face that gives him pause. "Through Jon, we already have direct ties to the Starks, there is no reason to add another direct one."

Then, she straightens, once again, giving him a firm expression. "Was it not so that a match between a Targaryen and Tully fell through due to no error on their part? Is it not worth it to rectify that?"

Rhaenys' message was clear as glass. While she might love her father and youngest brother, his Rhaenys would never be comfortable with placing herself amongst Jon's other relations. The only person he could find fault in was himself.

At any rate, his daughter is happy in her marriage. Too happy, it seems.

As a king, seeing his daughter wrapped up in the match he arranged fills him with a strong sense of accomplishment. As her father, the sight was nauseating. If they are this open with one another in front of him he dares not think of what their behavior is like at Riverrun.

Besides, if his daughter is so lost to him, at present, she is completely useless to him.


That Elia was busy with their good-daughters gives him time to seek out Aegon. Though Tully was no help with Brynden, Aegon could at least give him insight into Olenna.

When he found him, his eldest son was holding court with three companions, Steffon Baratheon, Garlan Tyrell, Lancel Lannister and Quentyn Martell in the chambers of the Small Council.

Clearly not expecting him, Aegon gives him a look, equal parts shock & concern. "Leave us, if you would."

Baratheon gives him a crisp bow. Lannister shuffles out, mumbling a nervous, "Your Grace". Tyrell smiles and gives him a jovial nod. Martell, however, does not move. The cousins share a look.

Aegon nods. "Go on, Quent, I'll see you later."

Martell gives Aegon a smile that he returns. It's the same one. What else about his children had he failed to notice?

He shakes the thought away. Of course, he would not notice this. Rhaenys resembles her Dornish cousins, not Aegon. Besides, when even his sons' personalities differ, who was he to question there being fewer similarities between his son and Doran's boy who he rarely sees?

He reprimands himself. To think of Quentyn Martell as a boy is a disservice. Quentyn is a man grown and Doran has been dead for three years.

The cousins share knowing look before his wife's nephew bows crisply. He decides he likes his nephew by marriage. "Your Grace. Cousin." With that, Quentyn leaves.

He could not say his wife's other kinsmen and kinswomen were impolite, but, Arianne, a ruler in her own right, had little reason to be fearful of him. After marrying Viserys, she knew it. Doran's youngest, Trystane, was rarely a visitor to the capitol. Gods knew Oberyn's children, true born and otherwise, are too much like their father to be of his liking.

"My lord Father."

That is alarming. Aegon was rarely so officious. What the in the name of the Gods does Aegon think he was here for? To distract himself from the implications, he asks, "Where is Jon?"

It is curious that Jon was not here now, they are rarely apart. Upon Aegon's majority and his formal investiture as his heir, Jon elected to join Aegon at Dragonstone. When either is in King's Landing, if Aegon is in a meeting of the Small Council or at Court, for the most part, Jon was, likewise, present.

"Testing out weaponry with Bran, I think." Ah. Bran Stark doubled as Jon's cousin and squire and the boy had only returned from Winterfell after celebrating the birth of Robb Stark's Bennard.

"I see," he says distractedly.

Aegon gives him a look.

"Yes?"

"I hope you are not checking up on me."

He hopes he does not flush with color. His father certainly used to check up on him! His father's behavior forced him to consider making changes and his father retaliated in kind. The pattern thankfully had not repeated itself this time. "Have you been doing something I should be checking on you for?"

Seemingly incapable of repression, Aegon grins. "Father, I think I should be the one to ask that question."

"What have you been hearing?"

Just as quickly Aegon begins looking stern. "Only that you have been letting my son gorge himself on treats early in the day."

Aegon laughs, easily plopping himself in the chair nearest him, the chair at the head of the table. He takes the seat next his son, not commenting about Aegon sitting in the King's Seat. Then again, why would he? Aegon's been sitting in it each time he led the council. One day, the chair will only be his.

"You have been talking to your sister."

Aegon smirks. It's just like Elia's, he thinks. "Aemon told me himself," Aegon's smirk becomes fond smile.

He huffs. "He tells you everything, does he?"

"Near enough." Aegon is absurdly proud. Should a man be proud his son tells him everything? Near the end, gods knew, his father hated him and thought him a traitor.

He stiffens. His father is long dead. What may have been no longer matters. This is not the time for to walk into a trap of memory. "You would deny me my rights as a grandfather?"

Chuckling, Aegon leans forward. "The ability to ruin my son's appetite is not a right."

He scoffs. "A privilege I am using, then."

"Abusing."

He shrugs the correction away. He has comforted Aegon from nightmares, seen Aegon's knees scabbed from running, found him when Aegon hid behind large furniture to avoid lessons more than once. He will not be cowed by a half-hearted attempt. "If you like."

Aegon rolls his eyes. "Aemon likes you." Was his son shocked? Confused? Alarmed?

He will not ask for clarification. He fears the answer. "I am glad to hear that."

Now, Aegon turns crafty. "Olenna was quite envious."

He groans at the cheerful volley. "What you have me do to fix it?"

Aegon snorts. "I would never dream of ordering you about, Father."

It is truly lamentable Aegon is too old to have his ears boxed. "You are not. She is your daughter. How do you fix this sort of situation?"

He has never been in this position before. When they were young, the children, Viserys and Daenerys included, went to Elia first. Comforting children did not come naturally to him as it did for her. Because of it, even now he knows who their favorite is.

Aegon laughs. "I start by not creating it."

And here he thought his daughter was the Dornish one. "You are as unhelpful as your sister. Perhaps I might go to your brother, I might get a helpful answer out of him."

Aegon snickers. "You can try but, I doubt it."

He shakes his head. "My son, you are made of stone."

Aegon snickers. "Father, really…"

"Were you not just saying that I should not feed your child sweets for insulting my other grandchildren?"

Aegon snorts. "I never said not to."

"And now Olenna is wroth with me."

"Quite so," Aegon cheerfully tells him. It truly is a shame both his son and his knees are too old.

"What can I do to change it?"

Aegon muses, "Your thoughts have likely run in circles."

Though he cannot admit it, Aegon is correct. "How did you come to that conclusion?"

Aegon gives him a soft look. "You always thought too much."

He smiles, ruefully. "You are quoting your mother at me."

Faintly smiling, Aegon shakes his head. "So, what have you thought of."

Anything and everything; nothing suits. "Would she like toys, dolls, a new dress? She's too young for jewelry. Short of buying her a pony, I am at a loss."

Aegon gapes. His face goes through some more expressions before settling on a grimace. "I am fortunate you have not ultimately decided."

At that, he has half a mind to give Olenna the pony out of spite.

Obviously, Aegon sees the unvoiced thought on his face. "Father, you cannot get her a pony. I forbid it."

The stern look Aegon gives him might have impressed him, if he hadn't been staring at a nearly identical face in mirrors all his life. "You cannot forbid a king, Aegon"

Aegon lifts his chin. "It is a Father's prerogative."

"It's treason."

Aegon puffs up, a slight sneer playing at his lips. "Are you going to arrest me, then?"

He rolls his eyes. "So, your mother could tear one of my arms off while your wife takes the other?"

Stern expression broken, Aegon chortles. "They would not dare." The words came out in a wheeze.

"Not your wife perhaps," He allows, bitterly, before continuing, "Your mother would not hesitate in throwing things at me to voice her displeasure."

Aegon's face still bright with amusement, flushes with surprise. "When has she ever?"

"She flung my harp at me once."

Aegon laughs, not aghast in the least. "Mother? Surely not? When?"

The little levity in him dies. "Harrenhal." Suddenly, he cannot meet his son's eyes.

It seems hours before Aegon allows, "That was an age ago. Was it not?"

It was a time so many years ago, but, the effects still linger. They always will. He only has himself to blame. "It was."

Again, a deep silence stretches. He does not want to break it. He closes his eyes. He should have not mentioned Harrenhal. He knew better.

It is an eternity before Aegon grimly asks, "Was that the worst of it?" Was Aegon asking because he wished more happened?

He sighs. He despairs of breaching the subject and yet he still manages to do it without fail. His children are grown, his eldest have children of their own. Why does he always do this to himself and to them? "That I have earned your mother's ire on more than one occasion should be no surprise to you."

"It is not."

The words are soft and measured. He'd rather be talking to his son, Aegon; not Aegon, his heir. And, of course, because he allows himself to fall into the same traps, he turn it exactly into that.

In times like these, he thinks he prefers Rhaenys' bluntness to Aegon's reserve. But, then, he can hardly take his son to task about careful phrasing. After all, if Aegon grew up knowing the phrase "an heir and a spare", he also knew the phrase, 'Blackfyre'. Aegon also had a more recent example of how badly a relationship between a father and son can deteriorate than Aegon IV and Daeron II.

"You were a child the last time I managed to truly disappoint her."

He wonders why he even said that. What was he hoping to accomplish? Was he trying to explain himself? Justify himself? Absolve himself? Could he accomplish any of those? He doubts it. It will do none of those.

Still, it was true, he tried not to be a disappointment. He had done enough to her, his children, and to the realm.

"Yet, I am no longer a child."

When he fixes his eyes on Aegon, he spies the stubborn tilt in the chin, the severe press of lips, the not quite a threat in the way Aegon's hands are planted on the table.

He knows how his father would have responded to an obvious challenge: anger, vitriol, fire, and death. Knowing his father hated him makes him glad his children do not. Still, being better loved by his children than Aegon the Unworthy or Aerys the Mad King is no accomplishment.

"No, you are not. You are a better son than I was."

Aegon asks, "Am I?"

Aegon could not possibly do worse than he had. In trying to be a good son to his father he let his father turn into a monster and he failed to save his mother. He hadn't saved his father, in the end.

Then, he hadn't been a good husband or father, either. Aegon was not of an age to remember his trespasses against Elia as Rhaenys might, but, even without Jon as a living reminder, his missteps had been too grand and too wrought in blood to be waved away.

Still, he tries.

"Yes."

Looking away, Aegon takes a breath. When turned to him again, it felt as though Aegon came to a decision of some sort. "Is that why you have no problem threatening me with treason?"

Looking away, Aegon takes a breath. When turned to him again, it felt as though Aegon came to a decision of some sort. "Is that why you have no problem threatening me with treason?"

The casual way, unflinching and unafraid, Aegon asks fills him with warmth. He's no longer talking to Aegon, the heir. Seeing the reprieve for what it is, he is relieved. He does not know what he done to warrant forgiveness, he will grasp at it.

Remembering words spoken long ago to a different person he says, "I've gotten far too accustomed to you."

The utterly delighted grin on Aegon's face was the same one Aemon gave the kitchen-maid when she put a plate treats in front of him. "You have no issue threatening Uncle Viserys that way."

He laughs softly. "You, I like. As it is, you are my son. Viserys is not."

Aegon grins, probably remembering all the mischief they got up to when growing up. "He practically was."

Thinking of the grey hair Viserys still attempts to give him, he huffs, "Do not remind me."

Aegon rests his head on his chin. "I had not taken you to be the sort to feel resentment towards your own children."

"You would be correct," he reassures Aegon. Once again, he is thankful the farce of a relationship between himself and his father hadn't repeated itself. It easily could have. He marvels that it has not.

Aegon smirks, "I suppose it is no more pleasant than being resented by your granddaughter."

He lets out a long-suffering sigh. "Would it be possible for you to and not mock me, son?"

"I believe that I am capable of it." Aegon smiles, as he lifts himself out of his chair and makes towards the door. "But, since I am expected in the City Barracks soon, regarding your present concern, I say skip the dolls and the dresses. Absolutely no pony. Try some books."

His son truly is no more helpful than his daughter had been. 'Some books', he says!

At least, Aegon hadn't said weaponry. He wouldn't know what to do if Aegon had. He had seen Tully with Brynden in the practice yard the other morning, teaching him how to hit things with a wooden sword. He could give a weapon to Brynden. Olenna is a different matter.

Who knows what Margaery would say? Elia would kill him.

Pointedly, he remarks, "On what subject?"

While the pensive look Aegon gives him is all Doran, the smirk he gets a few seconds later is pure Oberyn. It's enough to make him flinch. "She likes stories about adventures. She loves hearing about the seas. There were some days Margaery and I could not pull her away from turrets where she would watch the waves. But, if you would, there are subjects I would rather not fill her head with."

Oh? "Such as?"

Aegon has this look on his face as though he is having a debate with himself. He does not have to wonder for long. "If you would, nothing about Daenys the Dreamer."

He gives his son a look. Aegon returns an unrepentant one. He truly is Elia's son. "Your sister is right. You would make for a very bad jester."

Aegon scoffs, grinning. "What am I good at, then?" And here he thought only Rhaenys inherited Dornish audacity.

He shakes his head. "Being your mother's son." Aegon smiles warmly. "Once, I was sure she would pitch the pages of Signs and Portents into the Blackwater."

Aegon howls in laughter, but, there is an all-too-knowing expression on his face. "I doubt Mother would defile books that way."

True enough, but, hardly praiseworthy. "I never wanted to try my luck again."

"Then, I think it shouldn't be too easy to do now, is it?" Aegon grins.

It truly is a shame his son is too old to be taken over his knees. Even as he thinks it, he has a faint smile on his face.


He calls out to his youngest who is surrounded by three men and a squire. "Keeping yourself busy, I see."

Jon smiles, Bran Stark, his squire leaves with a stiff bow, followed by the Master-at-Arms. One of his former pages, Sam Tarly greets him shyly before following the other man.

"You were looking for me, Father?" Jon sheaths his sword. "If you needed me I would have come to you."

He waves away the offer. His children have their own lives and to have his children ordered to attend him reminded him too much of his father's summonses. "I've just been to see Aegon. You were not with him."

Jon's face alights with understanding. Where one of his son's was the other was usually there.

But, he supposes that will change now that Aegon moved his family to King's Landing and Jon would return to Dragonstone with Minisa. Jon explains, "I was with Minisa. I've just left her with Mother."

Mother.

Elia had been Jon's "Mother" ever since he could form the words. Rhaenys called her that, Aegon called her that. Why should Jon not?

Still, Jon had been young learned Elia was not the one who birthed him. It happened when Jon was old enough to write his own letters to Eddard Stark and Aegon had to send his to Doran and Oberyn. Rhaenys had been writing to Doran and Oberyn, but, she was their elder and 'a girl' so the difference had not made itself known immediately. In truth, it had been something of a miracle that none the servants or Viserys blurted some things earlier.

Jon's scream of confusion and distress still rings in his ears. They sat all the children down and tried to explain it, but, the hurt confusion on Jon's young face remained.

As much as the memory pained him now, he knows it could have always been worse.

Once Jon who was of eight days lashed out at Elia, yelling that he did not have to obey her because she was not his mother. To this day, he remembers Jon turning pale and clamping a hand across his frightened mouth. Even worse was the sight of Jon latching on to Elia's skirts, begging her not to hate him. Jon hadn't let Elia out of his sight for days after that.

He counts himself fortunate he never saw such a scene again.

To this day, there were times that he almost forgot that his children had different mothers. Still, the differences were present.

Of his children Aegon favored his looks the most and Rhaenys' eyes in certain lights flashed nearly indigo and she had his chin. But, Jon was all Stark in looks.

They showed when Jon visited Winterfell or Aegon and Rhaenys went to Sunspear. It showed when Oberyn Martell visited King's Landing while Eddard Stark never did. The Seven Hells, it could be seen in Jaime Lannister who could speak volumes on Sunspear and who never traveled North, let alone Winterfell.

There was also difference in both his son's marriages. Like his daughter, both his sons married ladies of Great Houses and both were wed when the when each bride was ten and seven. But, Minisa Arryn was the youngest of Jon Arryn's children and the younger daughter. His youngest son only married after both his eldest siblings had children of their own.

And the difference between the women themselves…

Elia is a constant presence while for him, on some days Lyanna is little better than a memory. Each time he can close his eyes, he can recall every detail of Elia's face; it is only because Jon favors her that he remembers what Lyanna looked like. There is very little he does not know about Elia. What he little knew about Lyanna, he could count on one hand.

Even the children…Rhaenys and Aegon can rattle off what makes Elia laugh; favorite gowns, jewelry, her favorite scents to wear, what books she likes, her favorite songs. Jon can do the same. But, of things Lyanna might have liked Rhaenys and Aegon have no reason to learn and most of what Jon does know about Lyanna came from Eddard Stark.

In his younger days, how much his son and his wife loved one another, but, even now he would be remiss to think there was not some measure of gratitude behind Jon's affection for her. Still, everything Elia had done for Rhaenys and Aegon, she did for Jon. Elia hugged and held him, sang him to sleep, bounced him on her knee, comforted him after falls and nightmares.

Perhaps, in another life, one where Lyanna lived, she might have not. But, she had, and he knew Jon loved her for it, just as he did. He cannot bring himself to ask Jon what Lyanna is to him. He does not have the right.

He told his children about his motivations and how he had been swept up in his fears for the future. He tried to explain what he had been thinking of that time, but, it all was so inadequate because he had been gripped by madness. Madness and too much pride and too much cost. Even now with all his children grown, he is remains wrongfooted. Such hubris he was capable of and others paid the price of it and would continue to pay for it.

When Jon was a babe in arms, his thoughts about Lyanna made him feel muddled. Though he had been gifted a wonderful son, what he did to Lyanna was his great folly. Even if he tried to talk to Jon now about Lyanna would be nearly impossible. All he had was shame and regret.

Thinking that he alone could save the world or that he needed his children to do it, he had not cared about what he was doing to manage it. True, Lyanna had flowered and came to him willingly, she had been a girl of five and ten and he was a man grown with family of his own. She had been his cousin's betrothed at that! Because he not cared, Lyanna died bringing their son to the world at an age younger than Jon was now.

He hadn't the right to do that to her. He killed her, his son's mother and she was not the only one.

He'd been a fool then. He said it once, he would say it a thousand times if he thought it would help anything. But, how much shame can one express without it becoming hollow? How much regret could he speak of and do nothing about? He is a king, but, even kings can only do so much.

If he is grateful for his eldest children's lack of scorn for him, it is nothing short of a blessing that Jon does not hate him. Then again, perhaps it is the love of the rest of his family for Jon that makes it so.

Whatever it was, he thanks the gods daily.

"Is Minisa well?"

His son gives him a soppy grin before it turns into a smirk. "Quite so, but, she misses the air of the Eyrie."

He tries not to take offence. He cannot.

He has been doing his damnedest to fix King's Landing from the moment he saw how ravaged it was after the war. He spent much time and coin trying to make it idyllic, but, he could only do so much. No matter how much he tried to improve it, he could not erase the stink from every corner.

Then again, there was only so much coin he could spend without it being ripped from elsewhere. He gave enough to the Wall, for example. Not that giving funds to the Wall gets him anything akin to praise. At least, he gets less suspicion sent his way now than he did then.

"Does she truly miss it that much?"

"Ye-No. She's become accustomed to the chill of Dragonstone. But, she misses her mother. Perhaps I should take her to the Eyrie."

He ignores the stutter of embarrassment and the excuse, legitimate as it might be in favor of considering the request.

He would have thought they would be eager to go back to Dragonstone. After all, Jon had lived there for years and Minisa spent enough time there as a companion to Margaery. Now with Aegon and Margaery here, Jon and Minisa would have the run of the island to themselves.

And for all he knew, Minisa hated being in King's Landing. He would not blame her and he does not blame Jon for refusing to tell him if his wife did, in fact, hate the city.

It is a sobering thought that his youngest boy is a much better husband this early in his marriage than he had been. But, it is a welcome one. After all, should a man not strive to ensure that his children become better than himself? Gods knew he was a man with too many flaws.

But, as Jon said, perhaps, it might be wise for Jon to take Minisa back to the Vale. Since Jon and Minisa's wedding the pair immediately took off Winterfell after the wedding and only recently returned. While Lady Arryn long settled into widowhood and has her son and Royce good-daughter about her, since the other daughter married Steff Baratheon, perhaps Minisa does wish to see her mother. Though Lysa Arryn might take some comfort in knowing that her daughter was in the care of her sister for the past few months, he could not know what was in a mother's heart.

If that is what his son wants… He will certainly make no great demands of his youngest son.

"Once Viserys and Arianne leave for Casterly Rock you both can go."

Jon's face lights up. "She will be pleased."

And Minisa would not seem to be the only one.

"Are you that excited to leave your father?"

Jon ducks his head, embarrassed, but, he is smiling. The expression brightens his face. There was spark in his dark eyes that almost reflects the purple of his own. "No, but, we wait for longer it might be impossible for Minisa to travel."

Slightly alarmed by that, he asks, "Has she taken ill?" Surely, Jon would not be so cheerful if that were so.

Jon looks up again, laughing outright. "No, Father. She is with child. She told me this morning."

Both relief and joy fill him. Decorum leaves him as he hugs his son, who eagerly returns it.

When they break apart, he still holds onto Jon's shoulder. "She has been to the Maester?"

Still bright eyed, Jon nods, "It's early yet, but, he is sure she is two months along or so."

It takes no effort to keep smiling. "Good. So, who have you told other that myself?"

"I have told no one, yet."

Jon told him first. For reasons he dares not name, that thrills him. Then, Jon is blushing slightly. He is embarrassed. "I think she's telling Mother now. I'm seeing Aegon in bit. We were thinking to tell the rest of the family tomorrow."

"When do you want me to make the announcement at court?"

For a moment, Jon startles. "You don't have to."

He straightens. "And yet I am. I will tell the world. My son is to be a father."

"Are you asking to do it as a father or a King?"

"Either, both. All I ask is that you let me."

He can only ask. He would not make such demands of his children. To this day, he often marvels at how his children have no hate in their hearts for him. Gods knew he does not deserve any of them.

And Jon, he would make no great demands of. Though he gave Jon his name, raised him with his eldest children, continue to provide for his household, unlike Aegon, there is no seat on the Council, no great tracts of land to offer him, no seat of his own.

He cannot make demands of this son without failing him further.

Jon's flush runs deeper. "Thank you."

He gives in to the impulse to embrace his son again. "You have nothing to thank me for."

He says it because it is true.

In truth, there never would have been equity between his children, no matter if there would have been only two. But, with his youngest, now a man grown, the best he could have done without allowing the whispers of Aegon the Unworthy and Daemon Blackfyre to flourish and haunt his first son is to name Jon Castellan of Dragonstone in Aegon's absence.

Even the love of the mother Jon had, was by her choice, not his.

If nothing else, he knows he is a man lucky in life, not a deserving one, not when it comes to his youngest son.


He decides to end this day in Elia's rooms.

Having not seen her all day, he longs to.

He took dinner in his Solar with Arthur. From Oswell, he learned Elia took hers with Minisa. They likely talked of 'women things' and that was nothing he wished to intrude upon.

And the rest of his brood…Rhaenys and Tully were dining with Viserys and Arianne. Both his sons were last seen, grinning, leading a trail of young lordings out of the Keep. He swore he heard something about a tavern. Margaery took dinner with her brother.

As it turns out he might not be a total loss as a grandfather. He wants to be a better grandfather than he had been a father. He learned Brynden could squeal just as loudly as Aemon could. Brynden's sheer joy with the fine blade made of Valyrian steel was made more glorious upon seeing the look on Tully's face.

Olenna had not been less effusive in her thanks. When he held out the copy of the Nine Voyages to her, she practically pounced on him so fiercely she knocked all the breath out of him.

Meria seemed to enjoy waving about the cloth doll he presented her with. He wonders what Daenerys's or Jon's children might like.

Still, he thinks he needs more practice being a grandfather. It is fortunate he would get more since Aegon's two would be about. Perhaps in a year or two maybe Brynden would be old enough to become his page.

Without pause, he opens the door to Elia's rooms. He tries to think of the last time he entered the room without seeking permission and fails to come up with an answer. It's been a long while. The thougth fills him with a certain warmth.

It is doused somewhat by the sight that greets him. Elia and Ser Jaime with a carafe of Dornish red between them in the sitting room. Elia, with feet tucked under her, is laughing. Lannister is sprawled on a couch directly across from her, his face contorted by an expression too warm for his liking.

They've clearly been there for some time.

If not for the white cloak Lannister draped himself in and his own age, he would have probably tried to ring the other man's neck. Then again, age might not be so much of a deterrence, Lannister has grey in his hair, now, too.

He slams the door shut behind him.

Only one of them is startled and it's the Kingsguard! The knight rushes to stand at attention; Elia only gives him a pointed look. "Good evening, Husband."

He rolls his eyes when Lannister cuts in, "Your Grace, I think I shall take my leave".

Drily, he replies, "Do not leave on my account," he says, though he means the opposite.

Lannister gives him a demure look a blind man could see is insincere. "In truth, my King, I must go." That at least sounds truthful.

Typical. Only when he is present, Lannister hurries. He huffs, "Well, then, I will leave you to it, Ser."

Ser Jaime flashes a grin before he bows to him, and once to Elia. "My queen, any assistance in the matter we discussed would be appreciated." While he rambles, Lannister scrambles to shove his boots back on his feet!

Elia smiles at him. It rankles, even now. Such smiles should be for him alone. He would have thought so many years would have ensured that her smiles would only be for him.

When the door shuts behind Lannister, he turns to Elia.

Still smiling, now Elia rises. She extends a hand. He gives it a kiss. She pulls him to the couch. They settle next to one another. He pulls her close, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. She plants a kiss on his cheek. She lays her head against his neck. It's quite comfortable; too comfortable.

"I don't like how you indulge him so."

With her body resting against him, Elia looks up, her chin lightly poking into his chest. "One glass of wine is far from an indulgence."

He frowns at her. "You were drinking wine with only him in your private sitting room."

She shrugs. "Being alone with a man of the Kingsguard is but one hazard of being a queen with a far too busy king for a husband."

Indignant, he snaps, "And that means he sits here sprawled out on my furniture, bootless, talking to my wife and drinking my wine!"

She throws her head back and laughs. "Bootlessness is not a crime." Her eyes shine with mirth. "Neither is being sprawled out on my furniture in my rooms whist drinking wine my brother sent me."

"What did he want, anyway?"

"Lannei sent him a letter."

Ah. Little Lannei Martell; a girl of three and ten who doubled Elia's niece and Lannister's. Of all his charges, Jaime Lannister adored Rhaenys most, but, even that care paled in comparison to the devotion the knight has for his youngest niece.

While Oberyn's twins were a mix of both their parents and the next one, Tyg had his father's looks and his mother's personality, the last child, Lannei, is completely her mother in miniature. Because of it, even from Sunspear, the girl had Lannister wrapped around her finger.

"What does your niece say?"

"She begs him for a visit."

He gets up. He does not get far; she has a grip on his wrist, her face alight with curiosity. "Where are you going?"

Should it not be obvious? "To tell Lannister he can go now. I might still catch him"

Snickering, she tugs on his wrist. "It is nighttime," she says pointedly. She tugs again.

He sits and grouses, "Then, he can leave at first light."

Threading her hand through his hair, she sighs. "What have I done that you are so eager to have me so alone and friendless?"

"You left me alone to deal with our children and our grandchildren," he huffs.

She snickers. "I have the utmost faith in you."

Sourly, he retorts, "What a fine wife I have! You find my being in a predicament so humorous that all you seek to do is add to them."

Once more pressed against him, she goes to poke him in the side. He grabs her wrist.

The bored look she gives him almost makes him smile. "Rhaegar Targaryen, stop being foolish or looking for sympathy. You do not have a predicament."

"Oh, I do."

She looks at him questioningly. "What?"

It is beneath him, but, he cannot help himself. He always hated how close Lannister is to Elia. "You always try to make me jealous."

She laughs so deeply she almost falls off the divan. He snakes his arm around her to steady her. She gives him a bemused look. "If I was trying to make you jealous I would not do so from my private rooms, let alone outside your presence."

She gives him a sly look. "Would it work?"

He clutches at her wrists.

Against him, she vibrates. After all these years, she finds his anger amusing. Then again, he is often guilty of the same thing.

Still, he is affronted. His wife has no business trying to incite his jealousy, let alone with his own men, certainly not after all this time. "Laugh all you want, wife, but, what other reason is there? You are not so open with any of the other Kingsguard."

And it was true. Arthur never was so lax in her presence. Oswell rarely visits her in private. Lucas never drank wine with her in the evenings. Hightower, Tully and Selmy, had they still lived, would never even think to be so informal.

Elia smirks, "Do you want me to be?"

Bringing his wife close again, "Only if you want to see their heads mounted on the battlements."

Heated gaze firmly on him, she says, "And what would you do with me?"

He tightens her grip around her. "I'd never let you out of my sight."

She laughs, "How would you manage that?"

"This for a start."

He shifts so suddenly, she lets out a gasp. He covers her body with his. He braces one arm against the end of the couch. There is no escape for her. He presses a kiss to her lips. Her lips are still sweet with the taste of wine. He grins. Her lips mirror his. The kiss deepens. His world shrinks to only thoughts of her and him together.

They had years together. He thinks, he could spend the rest of his life like this.

When the need to breath springs forth, he breaks the kiss to rest her head against hers. The way they are slotted together...He relishes it like the way she is looking at him, like he is the only thing on her mind.

She takes hand and presses a light kiss to it. "While it is not late, perhaps we ought to go to bed."

While he is too old for such things, he gives his wife a leer. "Perhaps we should."

She giggles. "That is not what I meant, my lord and husband."

His skin feels hot. "What?"

There is a glint in her eyes. The look she gives him now…on some days, it enthralls him, on others, it makes him want to tear his hair out.

"I only meant that we might retire early because you might have to take your own audiences tomorrow. Aegon might not be available."

He demands, "Why not?"

Even from the confined space his arms surrounding her allows, she shrugs. "I have it on good authority that Aegon took Jon out. I doubt either will stop at one drink for a celebration. It's not every day a man is told he is to be a father and another, an uncle."

He is unimpressed. While Jon was to be a father for the first time, Aegon is already an uncle twice over.

Rather than dwell on that, he rather focus on the slender hand threading through his hair. It is soothing. It always is. Then again, that must have been the desired effect. He knows his wife. He sees through the gesture; he sees through her. He always does. He smirks. "It is a good thing, then, my lady wife, that I should have a perfectly good Hand of the King are for."

She huffs, "You are so eager to run from your duties."

"I have other duties."

She looks at him fondly. "Such as?"

"Being with my wife, for one."

Her hand stills. "Is that all this is? Duty?" Her eyes searching for the answer.

She should know it already.

No matter, he will tell her again and again for the rest of her life if it pleases her.

"Of all things, dear one, not that." He kisses her again. Heat flares in his belly when she grasps at his shoulders, daring him to bring himself closer to her. When he does, the only answer he gets is a moan that makes his blood sing. Even after so many years, it is intoxicating.

When they pull themselves from one another, the satisfied look on her face makes him want to preen. Or at least he does until she remarks: "As pleasing as that may be, sweet husband, surely you can see why it would not suit me to be known in history as "Elia, Queen Consort to Rhaegar the Unavailable".

He snorts. "What? No desire to have an epithet of your own? Perhaps "Elia the Witty"? Surely, you think that would suit you."

Elia laughs. "I would be surprised if I even merit "Elia the Acceptable."

He pecks at her cheek. "My darling, there is nothing merely 'acceptable' about you."

She gives him a sly look. "Probing for compliments, are we?"

More than that, but, he has always been a greedy man. For this, he will not consider it a fault. He presses a kiss against her neck. Copying her earlier phrase, he remarks, "Would it work?"

They share a laugh. He loves how content he feels with her. Still, grinning, he continues, "Still, you might be correct, wife, about, "Elia the Acceptable". After all, I doubt there could be any better or appropriate companion to "Rhaegar the Tolerable".

He rarely could make people laugh. In truth, he never wanted to, except for her. He delights that he can..

She gives him a tender look. "You are slightly more than 'tolerable'.

Drily, he asks, "Only slightly?"

She smirks wryly. "More than slightly, provided you continue to be of use."

He smiles as he pulls them both upright. "What would you have me do to prove my use? Tell me. Whatever it is, my queen, I am at your service."

The moment she rises he already begins to miss her warmth.

Thankfully, she only goes as far as the corner of the room. She returns, holding out his harp. "Will you make a song for me?"

He takes the harp and runs a hand around the familiar edges.

He closes his eyes and breaths deep.

She wants a song.

He thinks about the type of songs he has played.

He thinks about the type of she likes to hear.

He thinks of the first time they met, the day the wed, their first day at Dragonstone, the moment he first held Rhaenys in hands, the strained silence between after Harrenhal, the time she asked him to make a song for Aegon and how he answered, the day he returned after the war.

He thinks of the mornings he woke up next to her and of the nights he went to sleep beside her.

He thinks of the all the mornings and evenings he still wants to share with her.

He stops thinking.

His fingers begin to move.


Final Note:

So, that's it. I hope you all enjoyed the ride as much as I did writing it. Once more, I want to thank you all.